(no subject)
February 22nd, 2032, 3:45am
Westminster, London
Frederick Abberline's residence
Absinthe isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not a hallucinogen like the Libertines of past so hailed it, and there is no Green Fairy. You drink it, and you get buzzed. You drink a lot of it, and you get drunk. It’s a different sort of drunk than if you were to drink anything else - anything else. That’s why it has the reputation, because of that difference. It’s indescribable. It’s bitter, no matter how much sugar you put in it or how cold the water you run through it. That bitter cold is what makes it so perfect a companion for things so sweet and cloying. Like opium.
Without the opium, his head will split. The absinthe makes it quicker, makes it thicker in his blood, in his lungs. The visions are sentient things after a time, creatures with hearts of death and black clawed fingers. Each tiny claw digs into a piece of his mind and then, bit by bit, they begin to tear. Soon he’ll start to come apart at the edges, and all that will be left are the visions.
It’s why he uses it. It’s why he’s there now, amongst it, floating with his back pressed solidly to his bed. The smoke is colorless but he imagines it’s red - a transparent red, like colored gauze stretched too tight over his vision. Like an over-full mailbox spilling out over the sidewalk the visions come, fast and sweet and nonsensical, like they always do when he waits this long. It’s like his mind is a wound held closed with gauze, and when he rips it off it just bleeds. But if he doesn’t re-bandage often enough, it festers. Like now. A choked gasp escapes his lips.
He’s walking through a hallway. Apartment building? No, dorm rooms. It’s a college. It must be late at night, for he’s the only one. He looks down - he’s wearing filthy black pants and mostly-destroyed running shoes. He looks at his hands, which shock him. They are so pale and white that he can see the lines of contained blood wriggling around beneath the skin, and his nails are a horror of filth and blood.
He is the killer.
He opens a door and steps inside. The lights are off. It’s a tiny dorm room. There is a girl asleep in the bed. This is not happening this cannot be happening wake up wake up look at a wall! School mascot wake up wake UP.
He turns. He’s in the bathroom now, and he’s squirming and screaming inside his own head. He does not want to see his reflection. Above all things he does not want to see the killer’s face. It is imperative he not but he has no control over his eyes his eyes his eyes--
His eyes meet the eyes in the mirror. Colorless and bloodshot at once. Rims unblinking forever, circled in black from disease. It’s the smile that makes it what it is. That smile is haunting. His smile and his - looking in at himself.
He knows who Abberline is. He knows Abberline is watching. He has been in his home and he has been in his office and he has watched him and brushed up against his shoulder in the subway and he knows what his mother looks like and he’s taken a sip of his friend’s coffee and it’s all for you, Frederick, this is what the watchers get.
He opens his mouth, his smile becoming cracked in the strain to keep it on his face. Don’t speak, don’t speak, anything but that-- The fear that grips him is so chilling so paralyzing he can’t breathe, it’s the sort of fear that makes hands shake and brings tears to eyes-
I AM THE HOLDER OF
He wakes up.
Westminster, London
Frederick Abberline's residence
Absinthe isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not a hallucinogen like the Libertines of past so hailed it, and there is no Green Fairy. You drink it, and you get buzzed. You drink a lot of it, and you get drunk. It’s a different sort of drunk than if you were to drink anything else - anything else. That’s why it has the reputation, because of that difference. It’s indescribable. It’s bitter, no matter how much sugar you put in it or how cold the water you run through it. That bitter cold is what makes it so perfect a companion for things so sweet and cloying. Like opium.
Without the opium, his head will split. The absinthe makes it quicker, makes it thicker in his blood, in his lungs. The visions are sentient things after a time, creatures with hearts of death and black clawed fingers. Each tiny claw digs into a piece of his mind and then, bit by bit, they begin to tear. Soon he’ll start to come apart at the edges, and all that will be left are the visions.
It’s why he uses it. It’s why he’s there now, amongst it, floating with his back pressed solidly to his bed. The smoke is colorless but he imagines it’s red - a transparent red, like colored gauze stretched too tight over his vision. Like an over-full mailbox spilling out over the sidewalk the visions come, fast and sweet and nonsensical, like they always do when he waits this long. It’s like his mind is a wound held closed with gauze, and when he rips it off it just bleeds. But if he doesn’t re-bandage often enough, it festers. Like now. A choked gasp escapes his lips.
He’s walking through a hallway. Apartment building? No, dorm rooms. It’s a college. It must be late at night, for he’s the only one. He looks down - he’s wearing filthy black pants and mostly-destroyed running shoes. He looks at his hands, which shock him. They are so pale and white that he can see the lines of contained blood wriggling around beneath the skin, and his nails are a horror of filth and blood.
He is the killer.
He opens a door and steps inside. The lights are off. It’s a tiny dorm room. There is a girl asleep in the bed. This is not happening this cannot be happening wake up wake up look at a wall! School mascot wake up wake UP.
He turns. He’s in the bathroom now, and he’s squirming and screaming inside his own head. He does not want to see his reflection. Above all things he does not want to see the killer’s face. It is imperative he not but he has no control over his eyes his eyes his eyes--
His eyes meet the eyes in the mirror. Colorless and bloodshot at once. Rims unblinking forever, circled in black from disease. It’s the smile that makes it what it is. That smile is haunting. His smile and his - looking in at himself.
He knows who Abberline is. He knows Abberline is watching. He has been in his home and he has been in his office and he has watched him and brushed up against his shoulder in the subway and he knows what his mother looks like and he’s taken a sip of his friend’s coffee and it’s all for you, Frederick, this is what the watchers get.
He opens his mouth, his smile becoming cracked in the strain to keep it on his face. Don’t speak, don’t speak, anything but that-- The fear that grips him is so chilling so paralyzing he can’t breathe, it’s the sort of fear that makes hands shake and brings tears to eyes-
I AM THE HOLDER OF
He wakes up.